Book of Lost Threads

by Tess Evans

  ‘Well, I was, like, her friend, and when she died, I kept the photo as a sort of keepsake. It shows her family at the beach somewhere. England, I think. She reckoned she was English.’ Cut to close-up of photo.

  ‘Did she tell you about her family?’

  ‘Not really. Only that the dog was called Mr Pie. She thought it was a stupid name for a dog.’ For effect Brenda tossed back her hair, which had been cut and coloured especially for her TV appearance. (The appearance payment allowed her to splurge a little.)

  Lisa affected a frown. ‘So why didn’t you give this to the police at the time? It may have helped them identify this poor girl.’

  ‘I was beaten up by my pimp. He wanted her money. The photo was the only thing I could save. I was really out of it for a while, and by the time I was feeling better, I was too scared to go back to the police. I was, like, only young at the time.’ Cut to a photo of a young Brenda, surely taken when she was still at school. (The current Brenda took on a tragic air. She thought it suited her.)

  ‘Well, that’s all we have, but maybe there is someone out there who recognises the photo, and we can help a family find closure. Back to you, Scott.’ One lingering shot of the photograph, and then a cut to Scott in the studio.

  ‘Thank you, Lisa, and thank you to Brenda for coming forward. In the interest of balance, we asked for an interview with the officer in charge of the case, without success. We’ve been given an official statement that the lead would be followed up once they have the photograph, which a courier is delivering as we speak.’ (Pause to emphasise the program’s integrity.) ‘The question remains, however. Why wasn’t this case investigated fully at the time? Why wasn’t the car’s driver charged? We have a filmed interview with a witness who says that the driver was speeding.’

  Cut to an elderly man, blinking into the camera. ‘He was going a bit fast, I suppose,’ the man said doubtfully.

  Scott oozed virtuous outrage. ‘We wanted to allow the driver, former Oxford Fellow Michael Finbar Clancy of Opportunity, to answer these serious allegations, but he bolted before we could speak to him.’ Cut to reporter and camera crew knocking on Finn’s door. ‘The neighbours were less than helpful.’ Cut to Sandy pushing away the camera. ‘Let’s hope that if this photograph is recognised, the family will demand a full investigation.

  ‘We’ll return after the break with the rogue plumber who preys on the vulnerable.’

  The producer was happy. ‘Not a bad filler for a slow news week. We can milk it some more if the rellies turn up.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Sandy. ‘They managed to insinuate that Finn was to blame. I wish I’d beaten the shit out of them. Sorry, Aunt Lily.’

  ‘I wish you’d beaten the shit out of them, if you’ll pardon my French,’ said the old lady grimly. ‘They’re vultures, that’s what they are.’

  Moss sat in appalled silence. She knew that Finn already blamed himself, although Channel 8 wouldn’t know this. And poor Senior Sergeant Patterson. He’d simply tried to help her, and now they were accusing him of dereliction of duty. She’d made a complete mess of things and could think of no solution.

  ‘Finn and I were getting along so well, and now he’ll hate me,’ she said miserably.

  ‘Not true, Moss,’ said Sandy. ‘He knows you were just trying to help. He particularly asked us to look after you.’

  ‘And so we shall,’ confirmed Mrs Pargetter stoutly. ‘We’re all family, here in Opportunity.’

  Hamish hugged Moss sympathetically. ‘I have to go now. Take care,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’

  The young man returned to the hotel. He couldn’t help but smile at Mrs Pargetter’s obvious interest in what she thought was a budding romance. She was wrong, but surprisingly that was okay. Despite his disappointment at the hotel in Adelaide, he realised that when he thought of Moss now it was with affection and concern, not passion. We’ve been mates for too long to be lovers, he decided with surprisingly little regret.

  19

  Sandy and Helen Porter

  THOUGH DISTRACTED BY HIS ANXIETY for Finn, Sandy had a few problems of his own. On the day of the TV broadcast, a letter had arrived from the shire council.

  At the time he perused it hastily, groaned aloud and threw it on the desk to be dealt with at a later date. But once Finn was safely settled with friends, he read it through again.

  Dear Mr Sandilands,

  Your design for the ‘Great Galah’ will come before Council at our November meeting. The plans submitted by Constanopolous and Son have been approved in principle by the Office of the Shire Engineer and the Business Subcommittee.

  The Town Planning Department has called for submissions regarding your plans, and to date we have received four hundred and twenty-two responses, four hundred and fifteen of which are negative.

  We request that you meet with the Planning Committee on 7 November with your engineers and, may we suggest, your lawyer, to address the issues the community has raised, a detailed list of which has been attached.

  Yours faithfully,

  Merriam Douglas

  Executive Officer, Planning Committee

  Sandy’s first thought was to talk to Finn, but he remembered that was impossible. How on earth did he get himself into this mess? Since Sandy read his mother’s journals, the Great Galah, once his passion, had become an albatross. The mere thought of building a memorial to his father made him feel ill. He decided to write to the council to withdraw his plans in the hope that the fuss would die down.

  This expectation proved to be optimistic. Preparing to write his letter, he booted up his computer only to find his inbox full of outraged emails castigating him for the folly of the Great Galah. The majority were from residents of the Cradletown district, accusing him of everything from environmental vandalism to money laundering. He was bemused to see that one H.T. Fairbanks of Burton-on-Waters, Oxfordshire, thought him a ‘cloth-eared dolt’, and that the Secretary of the Friends of the Galah was outraged at his money-grubbing exploitation of defenceless wildlife. But the one from Helen Porter hurt the most. Sandy, it said, you can’t possibly go on with this galah thing. I did warn you. We’ll be a laughing stock.

  A lesser man would not have read them all, but Sandy did. Or almost did. He only had a dozen or so to go when he heard noises in his drive and looked out the window to see a small, determined group of his neighbours, armed with placards, marching up to his door.

  They stopped short of the verandah and began their chant. ‘What do we want? Dump the Galah. When do we want it? Now.

  ’ Unperturbed, the resident galahs continued to tear at the wooden shed while Sandy peered out from behind his blinds. The decision to abandon his project was suddenly replaced by anger. Who were these people to tell him what to do? Scratching around in the dirt all day, knee-deep in animal shit; losers, the lot of them. He was a Sandilands and, as such, worthy of respect. Deference, even. He’d show those tree-hugging do-–gooders a thing or two. Striding into the hall, he was stopped short by the sight of his father in the hall mirror—the same livid purple, the same arrogant features, the same small, rage-filled eyes. He found himself shaking, whether in anger or fear he wasn’t sure. Then his aunt’s voice echoed in his head: You are not your father, Sandy. Not your father. No, he wasn’t. He stood, breathing deeply, until the last of his anger was exorcised and the face in the mirror became his own benign full moon.

  Meanwhile, two people detached themselves from the crowd outside and approached the door. They were obviously spokespersons for the group. Knocking loudly, they were startled at the sudden appearance of their quarry, who was, in fact, coming out to meet them.

  ‘We are here,’ said Tom Ferguson, regaining his composure with admirable speed, ‘we are here to demand that you give up your plans for the building of the Great Galah.’

  Sandy opened his mouth, but was firmly silenced as Freda D’Amico waved a bundle of papers at him. ‘This is a petition to go to council. It has o
ver five hundred signatures already and—’ she glared at him darkly—‘and I promise you, there—will—be—more!’

  ‘Well, okay,’ said Sandy.

  ‘Okay what?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Okay, I won’t build it.’

  ‘You won’t build it?’

  ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  The two leaders looked confused, then aggrieved. ‘That’s it?’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes. If there’s nothing else . . . ?’

  ‘Just a mo’.’

  Tom and Freda returned to the waiting crowd, and the group conferred briefly. They all stood looking at each other, not sure what to do next. This was just Plan A. They had other, perfectly good plans ready to go—Plans B, C, D and, for some of the more radical among them, Plan E.

  ‘We’ll be off then, Sandy,’ Ned Humphries finally called out. It was nearly milking time. They headed back to their utes and four-wheel drives feeling a little cheated. Freda left her sign, NO GREAT GALAH, as a reminder in case Sandy reneged. The resident galahs soon took care of that, and a few days later it read O G . Still, as Freda maintained, it served its purpose.

  Sandy chuckled as he wrote his letter to the council. ‘That took the wind out of their sails,’ he muttered. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years.

  He was printing out the letter the next morning when there was a knock at the door. It was Helen Porter, her hastily pinned-up hair falling as usual in untidy tendrils. Sandy wasn’t surprised to see Helen. They’d known each other since primary school, and her mother, Minnie, had been Rosie’s close friend. Until Sandy went to boarding school, they used to play together while their mothers took a break in their busy farm lives to enjoy tea and scones on Minnie’s verandah.

  Helen’s instincts had always been to protect Sandy. Her mother had referred to him as that poor wee lad, and Helen knew more about his family than he ever imagined. By the time Sandy had returned to Opportunity from university, Helen was married; she had been widowed now for fifteen years. She remained Sandy’s friend despite the fact that he sometimes disappointed her, and she encouraged him in his better ideas, like the Memorial Park project. As he motioned her in the door, she looked at him with concern.

  ‘Freda told me you’ve given up the Great Galah,’ she said, taking off her anorak and peering into his face. ‘Are you okay? You know I advised against it right from the start, but I guess you’re feeling pretty disappointed.’ She patted his arm and was surprised to see something like glee in his eyes.

  As they shared a cup of tea, Sandy told her the story of the aborted protest.

  ‘I can just imagine Tom huffing and puffing,’ she chortled. ‘And Freda—did she bring along that awful husband of hers?’

  The conversation had moved on to more general matters when Sandy leaned forward. ‘Helen,’ he said. ‘I need a replacement for the Great Galah. I still want to do something for Opportunity.’ He gave a small, deprecating gesture. ‘I want it to be something for my mother, too. Something beautiful—I want to give her something beautiful.’

  Helen nodded sympathetically. She had strong memories of the red-faced man with bullying shoulders and, beside him, the pale, pretty woman with defeated eyes. ‘How can I help, Sandy?’

  ‘I need an idea—and someone to talk it over with.’ He grinned. ‘My last idea had a few rough edges. I need someone like you—no, I need you to keep me on track.’ His grin faded, replaced by an uncharacteristic humility. ‘I don’t have many friends here and you’ve always been so nice . . .’

  Helen took his hand and wondered at his honesty. Sandy’s a strange mixture, she thought. But this could be worth doing. ‘We’ll plan something wonderful for your mother and for Opportunity,’ she said. ‘What about you make me a sandwich and we’ll begin right away.’ Helen Porter was a practical woman.

  20

  Finn and Boniface

  AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM. AFTER driving through the night with Sandy, Finn found himself standing once again at the wrought-iron gates of Our Lady of Sorrows monastery, this time seeking refuge from the press.

  ‘Do you want me to wait?’ Sandy had fussed and worried the whole way and was clearly reluctant to leave his charge standing at a locked gate.

  Through his haze, Finn noted that technology had come to the monastery and there was now an intercom instead of a bell. ‘It’s okay, Sandy,’ said Finn as he pressed the button. ‘I have friends here.’

  The porter’s eerily disembodied voice came through the speaker. ‘Brother Kevin here. How can I help you?’

  ‘Kevin. It’s Finn, mate. Please let me in. I need to come in.’

  ‘Finn? Finn Clancy? Just a tick, mate.’

  The gates slid open. Finn was sure that they had swung open on his first visit. He hastily shook hands with Sandy and almost ran into their embrace. ‘I’ll contact you in a couple of days,’ he said. ‘Tell Moss and Mrs Pargetter not to worry: I’ll be safe here.’

  Kevin came down the path to meet him and led him back to the porter’s room. It was as clean and sparsely furnished as Finn remembered, and Kevin had changed little in the ten years since they last met. He began to relax. This place had been a constant in his memory, and some part of him had always dwelt behind these worn stone walls. He felt like a child returning home.

  ‘You’ve got a new job,’ observed Finn. ‘Who’s looking after the garden?’

  ‘There aren’t as many of us now,’ Kevin replied. ‘We all have to be—I think they call it multi-skilled.’ He grinned and then looked at Finn soberly. ‘You understand that I’ll have to call Father Jerome.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Kevin left, and Finn sat on the wooden bench waiting for Jerome, who entered some ten minutes later and extended both hands in greeting. The years had not been kind to either of them, and they were both slightly shocked to see how the other had aged.

  ‘Finn. It’s good to see you,’ the abbot said, raising his hand in blessing. ‘I’m glad to be able to thank you personally for your generosity over the years. You’re always in our prayers, you know.’ He looked at the other man expectantly. ‘So what brings you back to us?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Father, but the main reason I’m here is that the press found out my story and I can’t face them. Not yet. It was all too sudden.’

  Jerome, composed, as always, nodded as Finn went on. ‘I know Moss—the person who tried to help—did what she thought was best, but I was dealing with things in my own way. I was happy—or at least contented—in Opportunity. Now I have the press scrabbling over my life. It’s too much. I’ll have to move on.’

  ‘What do you want from us?’

  ‘A few days. A few days to get my head together.’

  ‘I’ve asked Kevin to make up your old cottage. You know the way. We’ll talk this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you, Father Jerome. I can’t tell you how grateful . . .’

  Jerome raised his hand and shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘Remember the virtue of silence,’ he said. And ushered Finn out into the brightness of the new day.

  Kevin had left sheets and towels on the bed and some teabags and milk on the bench. Finn smiled to think of the outrage the teabags would beget in Mrs Pargetter’s tea-loving heart. He’d come to like the ritual of making tea in a pot, and he hoped that the three cosies he had in his bag would find homes on a real teapot. He was sure that Boniface, at least, wouldn’t countenance teabags.

  He showered and lay on top of the bed, willing sleep. Although he hadn’t slept much the night before, his eyes remained wide open and gritty. Sighing, he got up and decided to take a walk in the grounds.

  Matins was finished, and the monastery’s workday had begun. He wandered over to the vegie patch, noticing the large water tanks that had been installed. He ran his hands over one smooth wall. Water was a problem all over the country.

  There were a few weeds in the garden, and despite the fact that he was dressed in a good shirt and jeans, he knelt down and began to pull t
hem out. He was so absorbed in the task that he didn’t hear Kevin’s approaching footsteps.

  ‘Nice to have you back, Finn,’ the monk said, and they worked in silence until the next bell called Kevin to prayer.

  Finn sat back on his heels and looked at his hands. They were a good deal tougher than the first time he’d worked in this garden. He began to miss his own little vegie patch back in Opportunity, and the thought that he would have to start all over again somewhere else depressed him. He felt petulant and resentful. Hadn’t he given up enough? How long would it be before his dues would be considered paid? But he wasn’t thinking of leaving Opportunity because of the press. He knew that in a few days some new titillation would send them baying after another victim and all he needed to do was stick it out. What he couldn’t bear to think about was the contempt in the eyes of his friends and neighbours now that his culpability had been exposed. He shook himself and reached for a dandelion. He liked the satisfaction of pulling out the long taproots. But he stopped mid-motion, and his hand fell onto his knee. He was so weary; too weary to bother. Stretching his back, he stood up and returned to his cottage where he fell into a troubled sleep.

  He awoke in time for lunch and ate in silence as the reader intoned the Acts of the Apostles. They certainly don’t try to entertain, Finn thought as he fought off the soporific effects of the droning voice. He looked around the table. All but two of the faces were familiar, but there were several missing. Where was Boniface? Not seeing him in his usual place, Finn looked around with increasing concern. Perhaps he was working in the kitchen today? Kevin said that they all needed to multi-task, but surely a man of that age wouldn’t be made to peel potatoes? Perhaps he was . . . Finn wouldn’t allow himself to finish this thought and tried to speak to Father Timothy, who frowned and shook his head. The Rule demands silence, his look said, and Finn lowered his eyes to his soup.